One Grand Interrogation
by Younger Dr. Grey
Summary: "Come on, Rick, you've got to have at least one fantasy?" Turns out he does. Post-S3. Not M-rated.


**Title:** One Grand Interrogation  
><strong>Author<strong>: _youngerdrgrey_  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Castle/Beckett  
><strong>Summary:<strong> "Come on, Rick, you've got to have at least one fantasy?" Turns out he does. Post-S3. Not M-rated.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** None  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing. All rights for the characters and the world go to their owners. I, in no way, believe – or would lead others to believe – that I own _Castle_. Though, I would have no objections to having some time with this cast.

**Author's Note:** Since this is Castle telling Beckett, the reader gets placed into the four-inch heels of one Katherine Beckett.

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><p><strong>(11) ONE GRAND INTERROGATION  
><strong>

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><p>I, uh, have this fantasy. It's a recurring one.<p>

Eleven fifteen PM rolls in before you can stop it. The digits burn into the back of your eyelids from the screen of the computer at the precinct. A hard case just ended, real tough one that took nearly a week to crack. You weren't the one to crack the guy. Ryan was. Sharing it didn't eat you up, but you had had the guy in the interrogation room and got nothing. That's what eats at you. So you sit and try to get over the feeling that you aren't at the top of your game.

No one else is in the building. You had stuck around under the pretense of doing paperwork. You did, but after a while, you just can't control yourself. You walk over to interrogation one and lean against the door. You go and take a seat at the table and just picture the son of a bitch sitting across from you. The whole exchange goes by in your mind - and your eyes. You don't know, but I'm watching you from behind the mirror. I would feel creepy if not for the fact that I saw the only light on was in that room and felt the need to scope before going in.

Eventually, I walk over into the room with you. You look up and our eyes meet. You're so frustrated at yourself. It's nothing I haven't seen before so your question comes as no surprise.

You ask me, "How did I miss it?"

"You didn't miss it. You just weren't there yet. Give it some time and you would've gotten it," I say.

"Time and he would have walked. I screwed this up, Castle. I can't get it right. I-I can't."

Long time ago, it used to be that you doubted your abilities because of the fact that you never saw yourself as good enough to solve your mother's murder. Now, since your… incident, I have a new motive behind your filleted insides.

You feel lost, as if everything that made you you had been stripped away by yet another close brush with death. There is, however, one thing that reminds you of who you are, but that same thing frightens you as if your feelings have suddenly become the only thing that grounds you to your world. But I don't focus on that in the moment.

I tell you that you're the best cop I know. That you're amazing, Kate.

You just stare into the mirror, glaring holes into yourself. So I walk behind you and lean down, lips right by your ear but eyes trained forward on our reflections.

I whisper, "You're perfect."

You shudder. It's extremely out of place. Nothing's cold. Nothing's different except your eyes change. It's weird to stare into your eyes through a mirror while you do the same to me, but somehow we wind up on the same message anyway.

You don't look away from the mirror and neither do I. You say, "Prove it."

Then I look away. I look at your profile, your forcibly relaxed hands on the edge of the table, your forever slightly unbuttoned top, and then I'm looking at my own palm as I turn you to face me. Your eyes latch onto mine just as easily and obsessively as you had to the mirror. In a way, it's like that first kiss, when I pushed your hand off the gun and just took the plunge. But it's different.

I move in with the same speed and doubtful hesitance as before. I doubt you'll reject it, especially not without getting a taste first. Your gaze doesn't waver. Mine doesn't either. Like riding a bike, I know where everything is. I know the feel of your lips from months of recounting it in my mind. I know the sound of your drawn out stifled moan and the implosion that happens in your eyes just before you dive in with every ounce of yourself into this outlet of passion. I know how to find you.

That's the biggest thing. Always has been for the two of us. I know how to bring you out of the holes you dig for yourself, even the ones you dug a long time ago. It may not be at the most fortunate moment for you, but I always do.

Then Now is no exception.

You smoosh into me like a game of jello, melting into my kiss and compelling me towards you. Your hands clench, a visible sign of you holding yourself back. I don't notice until the moment I pull away. You let go of the self restraint quickly, bringing those hands up to pull me back to you. I lower myself to my knees and for the slightest second I wonder if anyone else might be doing what I did when I first got there. Maybe they're enjoying the sight of the first known Castle/Beckett kiss. Texting the others. Changing their bet in the latest pool. I consider if there is anyone, I should give them something to see. I reach out to you to bring you to the ground with me. You push your body back, a sign that the floor isn't what you have in mind. It makes my head reel even more than the fact that your tongue has somehow found its way into my mouth. Do you want it on the table? I break you like a suspect, pushing until you're spouting anything it takes to get you in the clear and not spending life behind bars. Or, in this metaphor, spending the night alone at home.

"Table," you whisper as your lips disengage momentarily. Something guttural erupts in the back of my throat and I'm back on my feet to help lift you up. Your heels tap into my calves and just the thought of where we are and what we're doing makes it feels like you're digging your nails into my back or running your fingers through my scalp. Instead, your hands are gripping the table, keeping you upright. It's both a stalling tactic and one of control. Once on your back, I have more leverage, more ways of being the dominant one in the relationship which you have denied me many times. Sitting on the edge of the table, we're practically equal and you could easily take those hands and push me away if you change your mind. I want to prove to you that you won't, but I'm not so sure that is the case. I wonder how far we can go before you back away. I don't want it to happen yet so I don't push. I don't try to lay you down. I have my hands on your hips, thumbs inching towards a place that I have spent many nights dreaming about. I'm closer than I could've imagined, a few inches and some clothing the only thing keeping you from experiencing a sexual event many have compared to the first bite of chocolate after a horrible day. Simply magical.

You mumble something again. I think maybe it's the approval I've been waiting for. I inch a little closer and my legs are flush against the table, directly between yours, sandwiched in heaven.

"Herd," you mumble. Like a pack of sheep, flocking in the meadow. "You." Ooh, like the second part of a phrase that's former I would love to be implementing. You grumble my name and I can hardly stifle the moan that rips through me at just the sound of it. I can't wait to hear you below me, repeating it urgently.

Before we get there, though, you do use those hands to push back. Just slightly. Our lips break and you repeat yourself. You make a lot more sense the second time.

"I heard you," you say. I wonder what exactly you could mean until images of blood that never seemed to go away and sounds of Lanie practically dying herself invade me. I put more physical distance between us than there's been in over ten minutes.

Oh. Um. What do I say to that? Is that your way of backing out of what we're doing? Or maybe you're finally going to sleep with me and then get me taken out of the group by the new captain for being inappropriate and risky. I feel bad for thinking it, but I can't figure out why you would bring it up. Not unless you were trying to figure out a reason to run or you actually felt the sa-no, I would not let myself go there.

"And?" I say. It's the safest response I can give without giving everything away.

You look at me sort of conflicted and confused. You say, "You said you loved me, Castle."

"I also said please. My manners are impeccable even in times of crisis," I say. Your eyes don't cloud angrily and your eyebrows don't knit. You barely seem to even recognize my deflection.

"But you haven't brought it up. Why haven't you?"

Because you'd reject me.

"Why haven't you?" I ask back.

You glance down and clear your throat.

"I wasn't sure what to say," you admit.

Of course not. How do you break your best friend's heart? I look into my reflection and wonder if maybe someone can be behind the glass and can cut us off before you say the inevitable. I keep my eyes there, hoping as I make it easier for you to let me down gently.

"You don't have to say anything. I've been doing it for a while now and I don't need anything in return. I-"

"Love you too."

What?

You look sincere. You look a bit embarrassed, something you tend to be when it comes to matters of the heart. The last and only guy I've ever heard you say you loved was Royce. It turned out horribly. I have to admit you have definitely traded up. If it's true.

"You what?"

You meet my eyes again and say, "I love you too, Rick. And I did before you kissed me tonight and even before you did it last time. Probably even longer than you've had a thing for me."

"You love me," I repeat. You nod. I get the oddest urge to start writing on the walls everything about this moment. I want it engraved on my tombstone.

Rest in Peace - Richard Edgar Castle. I kissed. I loved. I died. All with the extraordinary KB.

Our actual love story would of course be too long unless I built a mausoleum just for my body. Maybe Alexis's too. Not Mother's. She wants to be cremated and spread across the stages of Broadway. You're more than welcome so long as you haven't been with anyone else since my death.

Wait, no dying. Neither of us are dying until after I say, casually and without the slightest hint of my nervous energy,

"Well, it took you long enough to admit it! I have been waiting since I saw the first Castle41319 message on my fan site."

You roll your eyes and when they settle once more, you beckon me towards you. I settle back between your legs and smirk as I do so. You do as well. Then you suggest we take this elsewhere. You know a great little place not too far away that is just perfect for a nice night of, uh, privacy. I ask if the mirror can come with us. You say you'll hold one in your teeth. I ask where the ice cubes will go then. You just smirk again and push yourself off the table, flush against me. You enclose your hand in mine and whisper in my ear,

"It's going to be great."

And I respond, just as easily as you did during that first case, "You have no idea."

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><p><em>Edit: I fixed the one POV error from before. Thanks for catching it and telling me, folks.<em>

_I'd love to hear what you think. Any words of encouragement or critique, Detective?_


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